


life in episodes

by fated_addiction



Category: Innocent Man | Nice Guy, Korean Drama
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-08
Updated: 2013-03-08
Packaged: 2017-12-04 16:33:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/712779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fated_addiction/pseuds/fated_addiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eun Gi does not like to cook. (Remembering together in fragments.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	life in episodes

**Author's Note:**

> _Nice Guy_ was the first drama I really watched before I started watching a billion of them (and every episode of IRIS and Running Man after that). Anyways. It was time for a re-watch. And then this happened.

A shop is a sensible investment. 

It's business school 101. You fit the shop to the location. Villages are best because of their unwavering loyalty, meats and cheeses and fancy dresses. Eun Gi can still read a trend. She doesn't mean to. (She does.) The city just hasn't felt like home for a long time. (She can't remember.)

"Can you cook?" Attorney Park asks. He prods her gently, carefully.

They sit in an open shop. She orders an Americano. He is too sensible to drink anything other than his favorite tea.

"I can learn, oppa." Her mouth bites; he laughs. "Plus I was thinking sandwiches."

"Sandwiches?" He means _thinking?_ and she sees the relief in his gaze. 

"Everyone likes sandwiches."

"Sure," he says. "I don't know anyone who doesn't. But."

Her eyes narrow. " _But_?"

He smiles and she thinks _he smiles too calmly_ \-- too gently, really, as if she were still teetering off the edge, of some edge, something that still feels shaky with memories. Eun Gi still understands who she is; she is all sharp edges, not lines; she is pieces that fit but don't quite fit, that make sense but don't quite make sense; she is happy this way. The mystery is her own, after all.

But Attorney Park's place in her life is stable. It continues to be stable. It will remain stable. He has offered his secrets; she isn't interested. There is always a learning curve with the people you want to trust.

"Nothing," he says finally, and it will really be nothing new. He stares at her, from his place at the table, fingering the plate underneath his tea with a strange sort of wistfulness.

She won't think of that look.

It doesn't matter about the time; her looks belong to someone else.

A year is coming soon.

 

 

-

 

 

Eun Gi does not like to cook.

Or does. She decides to keep the drive that sandwiches _were_ a good idea. She experiments. She fails. She has a loyal base; the children only pop up more because she thinks of her brother, has too much of a heart, and settles into giving away everything else.

She does not remember hearing when he comes back --

although, that's more of a lie than anything, not to you but herself because there is Choco and there is Jae Gil and Choco staring her straight on, a smile bursting as she says _you can't go anywhere; you're family_ and there is her little brother too; there is no time to really think about Maru (there is) and how he's doing, how he's progressing, and even with the slightest edge of distance (she is waiting) but she does not know how to love him any less 

\-- he comes _back_ , not to her, but he's home and nearby.

The village is warm, maybe too warm. She hears about the new doctor taking over the clinic as she attempts to make her own kimchi. She does not have a family recipe; the grandmother of one of the little girls that comes by after school to sit passed hers over with patience. They both laugh because Eun Gi does not have the hands for it, or even the basic understanding of what real tradition. It does not take her weeks, like promised, or even months. She gives up more than a number of times (she doesn't like to admit it, okay?) and works too hard even more. But she tries, really, she tries and tries and tries to replicate a taste that she wants for herself. And then one day she gets it, out of the blue and with a few more customers, wide-eyed and amused, happily boasting _finally_.

This is how he comes back into her life.

It will always be abrupt.

 

 

-

 

 

"Hi."

She looks up from the counter. Her hands tremble a little.

"Hello," she says, and she can't really react because she doesn't know how to process Kang Maru standing right in front of her.

He is too handsome, too aware of being handsome, all bright-eyed and that slight warmth to his smile. He stares at her curiously, but there is no sense of recognition, and her heart quivers just a little in her throat.

"So what's good?" he asks.

"Good?"

"I'm hungry." He lets out a little laugh; she draws back from the counter. His hands slide into his pockets. "I haven't eaten all day, unfortunately."

"That's not good," she says.

"No." His mouth twitches. "It's not. It's sort of bad for business."

"Something like that."

"Well, what would happen if you broke your hand?"

"Well," he says, and she laughs. "I hope it doesn't come to that."

He sees the large bowl then. The ingredients for kimchi are in various places -- over the counter, behind her and against the books. Her telephone is lost to the masses too. She has a flyer advertising a school concert.

It happens slowly. She feels herself flush. There is a rising panic. It starts at her throat and she feel the tightness. She swallows once. Then again. Her hand drops against her stomach too, her fingers curling lightly in her sweater. She's blushing. She's uncomfortable and it's all too familiar, really, knowing how much he affects her.

"Struggling?" he asks then.

It's the first time, in a long -- or what _feels_ like to be a long time -- she thinks about love. "I wouldn't say that," she says.

 

 

-

 

 

 

The truth is that he was going to come back.

She knew. She wanted to let herself know. It was a multitude of feelings; part hope, part change.

Deep down, she also knows he always going to prove her right.

 

 

 

-

 

 

Maru courts her. It's really charming, not really _a_ courtship, but there are times where she forgets what it's like to _not_ see him, knowing that he is close, this is now becoming _their_ village, and she is anticipating things again.

There are three dates:

 

 

 

"What do you do _mean_ you don't like sweets?" and when he asks, he's actually offended to the point where she laughs, if only because the expression on his face is something she can't remember seeing.

"I don't _hate_ them," she says. "I just don't like them either. I'm indifferent."

"That's too bad," he replies.

They are walking. The school kids are long out. One of the neighborhood girls is watching the shop for her. She buys flowers. Or he buys her flowers and rather, she just picks them and the florist stares back at them, kindly bitting her tongue and her amusement when some says to Maru _your lovely wife_.

She fingers the petals of the daisies though. "It isn't though. I like salty things. Savory, really."

"You're an odd one," he says, and his hand brushes the back her arm. She feels his fingers slide against her elbow.

"I like being odd."

"You're arguing."

Her eyes narrow but she flushes. "I _like_ arguing too."

He's amused and she sweeps the flowers closer, letting them rest against the crook of her arm.

It's like this: it's a beautiful day, a really beautiful day, and all they do is hover around the clinic and the shop, talking about nothing in particular because she feels very new to this and he doesn't quite feel like _him_. He fixes the collar of her jacket. She pulls at the sleeve of his sweater. One of them laughs. 

Her heart is starting to grow again.

 

 

 

The second he is late, really late, but it's not his fault because Mrs. Choi fell off a ladder and broke her wrist. He does not call. She hears second hand; Mrs. Kim and Mrs. Lee stop to buy some lunch for one of their sons and mention the accident with expectations.

Eun Gi smiles politely, closes the shop on time, and waits with a book.

He comes when it's dark, around the second or third time she's played with the chain of her _closed_ sign, staring out into the neighborhood. The sky is black, grayish with a few lights and scattered stars, and the echo of people still coming and going. He doesn't startle her. His fingers rap against the glass. She blinks and unlocks the door without thinking.

"You should have called," she scolds.

"I _did_ ," he says and immediately, he is taking her phone from her hand. He scans it and then frowns. "Or didn't." He laughs softly, running a hand through his hair. "Sorry. I thought I called you. Then you didn't pick up. Then I got angry and worried -- the hospital smell. But, you know --"

"Duty calls," she says gently.

She reaches forward. Her hand cups his elbow and then slides her fingers into his coat. Her fingers catch at the fabric. He leans over her and his mouth -- just _barely_ \-- skirts over her forehead. Her head feels unsteady. Things are spinning, that's not the excuse, but she lets her hand curl into a fist.

"This isn't what I planned."

Her laugh is soft.

"Planning was involved?"

His gaze takes a light. She can't tell if he softens or not. His knuckles brush against her chin and she doesn't know why they stay like this, or how long, but this is more than the closest she's been next to him since, since, _since_ everything happened.

There is a direct count. She can tell you why she made the choice she did. She can tell you how it was awhile before she could look at any calendar, no matter how stupid it seemed, and how everything, here and there, continues to seem fragmented. She knows if it was _before_ she would have never been okay with that. She would have fought. She would continue to fight. But it's not _before_ , and her father is still dead and Jae-Hee is locked away, serving time, finally serving time, and something is being written the right way.

"It doesn't matter," he says.

"Are you sure?" She teases him. She feels his smile against her forehead. She breathes.

"I'm here," he says. "I'm here and I have a clear head and maybe the best thing about it is that I've forgot that I had a plan."

She pulls back, meeting his gaze. His eyes are bright. She no longer searches for that sense of recognition.

And that's important, that's really important.

"You can be so sweet," she says.

 

 

 

The third time, the time before the time that he _really_ decides to kiss her (that time is really important because it's the time that he's sure that he loves her, that she is sure that he is _sure_ and it's probably the most real experience she's ever had; it's something that's not for sharing, something she just won't share because there is him and her and nothing else) she is angry at him over a broken glass.

It's not a big deal. She can replace a glass. She can even take a third and fourth round of one of the neighborhood boys telling her just exactly why she can't cook and _why_ she will never make someone a happy husband ( _whatever_ ) when she finally marries.

She just can't remember _why_ he's here and it's obviously frustrating him. He comes behind the corner, his papers tucked underneath his arm.

He says: "I'm heading back." His hand hits the counter. She blinks. "I have some files to go over. And a last appointment, apparently."

"I'm sorry?"

"I have an appointment."

"You could just say you're going," she snaps.

"I _am_."

It's silly, this is silly, and she is not forgetting anything important. She had a steady day. Tomorrow's order of stock came in already. Orders for the weekend are done and organized. She stares at him. He stares right back. But she cannot help but feel like she's not seeing something and he's not telling her something else and that, like a lot of things, makes her uneasy.

"If I were going to say sorry," she says slowly. She leans over the counter, into his space. "I wouldn't know what I was apologizing for. I like to think that if I apologize, if I'm meant to apologize, at the very least I'm going to understand why and how and for what --"

He softens. He rubs his face.

"It's not you," he says.

"Isn't that the worst thing you can say to the person you're dating?"

It stumbles out. He looks surprised. Then he looks amused. She will not bite back her frankness. This is awkward . This is clumsy. She is okay with both.

"You would immediately think in survival mode," he says, and he gets this look, just this look that she's never seen before but it feels familiar, it feels too familiar. It's affectionate. It's _his_ and somewhere inside of her, something just bursts.

"Stupid man," she says shakily. 

It wasn't quite the argument. She reaches forward. She makes a fist in his shirt.

"Stupid, stupid, _stupid_ man."

Her nails against his buttons click. He leans over her, into her, and it's her mouth that touches his first. You do not know what happened. She will not remember why. She is just kissing him first.

He is sweet. She is tasting the leftover pears that she fed to him, the syrup still clustered into his skin. She bites. He sighs. It's somewhere between spring and fall that starts to sink back into her skin. She remembers very distinctly what it was like to be edged just against him. She thinks _we fit_ as he starts to swallow her back.

His hand covers hers against his chest. She breaks back, her eyes still closed.

"I love you," she says and she does not take it back.

 

 

-

 

 

There are a million different things, small things that happen, and important moments that will forever just remain important moments, significant ones that belong as stories to other people friends, family, children and big, big dreams. It goes to show them that it was always supposed to be just about the two of them, in and out of obstacles, even though they never seemed to be set to meet. She thinks that's important. She will always think that it's important.

So what happens next is something you know.

He buys the rings.

She does not expect that.

 

 

-

 

 

It's a sunny day when he tells her he loves her again, when they've fought _again_ ("We just can't be boring," he teases.) and one of them is angrier than the other; he is waiting for her on a bench and she is squinting in the sun, her bicycle cool against her palms. She is wearing white when she doesn't mean to -- or is it pink, sometimes the colors really remain amiss to her -- and he doesn't ask her to stop even though she just does.

All she has to do is sit.

And he smiles.


End file.
